


know them by their limping

by TolkienGirl



Series: All That Glitters: Gold Rush!AU [17]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Irish Catholic, Prayer, Roman Catholicism, They're a mess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-17
Updated: 2019-03-17
Packaged: 2019-11-21 04:16:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18137156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TolkienGirl/pseuds/TolkienGirl
Summary: The house of Feanor prays in different ways.





	know them by their limping

_May those who love us, love us._  
_And those who don't love us,_  
 _May God turn their hearts;_  
 _And if He doesn't turn their hearts,_  
 _May He turn their ankles,_  
 _So we will know them by their limping._

_\- Irish prayer_

* * *

_Shut the eyes of the angels and give me their strength, that I may avenge my honor!_

“Celegorm! Where did you learn to pray for such a dreadful thing?”

“Athair says it. He says that we shut the angels’ eyes and then we can have their flaming swords—”

“It is not a proper prayer.”

“Then why does Athair say it?”

“Begin with a _Salve Regina_ , Celegorm. At once.”

* * *

Seven sons and a husband who is more trying than all of them combined. A husband to whom she _gave_ seven sons, of course—to whom she would probably have given more if the heavens wished it. Does that mean that Nerdanel is to be blamed? Perhaps.

She knots her rosary around her fingers and kneads the beads against her creased brow.

_Mother, I ask that you take them all to your tender heart, with the patience I don’t have._

* * *

_Cherubim and seraphim, sing in endless praise…_

Prayers like poetry. Those, Maglor likes very much.

* * *

_Dear God, if you will give me what I want, I will…_

“Curufin, it isn’t a bargain.”

* * *

“A quarrel is no reason not to say your prayers.”

They glare at each other, very suspicious and squinty, and kneel at their opposite beds instead of by the same one.

_Dear God, I would like very much if Amrod would give me back my army knife. And since he is listening, too, please tell him to leave my things alone. Thank you very much. This is Amras. I don’t know if you can tell our voices apart. Amen._

Mother clears her throat. She is frowning darkly—she can’t _possibly_ be stifling a laugh. “Now you.”

_Dear God, I don’t know why I would pray for myself to do something, so I am sure you knew that was Amras. And I didn’t take his knife, I only borrowed it. Please do not send me to hell for that. I will give it back tomorrow. I just—alright, ow! He pinched me, God. I hope you saw that, and Mother saw it too! Oh, and please bless Mother and Athair and all our brothers. Even Amras. Amen._

* * *

Caranthir vowed to say a novena of rosaries, to make his teeth grow in smaller—Curufin says they look like bricks in his mouth—but rosaries are _hard_ , so he confines the plan to ten _Hail Mary’s_ a night.

And even so, he’s always drifting off just when he begins.

_Hail Mary, full of grace…_

* * *

Maedhros spends so much time talking—coaxing and reasoning and smoothing over a multitude of sins, sins that aren’t even his own—that when he’s on his knees, it’s best to keep it simple.

_Please._

* * *

Feanor stands beside the fresh-turned earth of his father’s grave, and does not pray.


End file.
